


The Hawk, The Wolf, and the Mouse

by classysassygay



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2020-09-06 12:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classysassygay/pseuds/classysassygay
Summary: Everyone develops the first words their soulmate will say to them along their forearm.Philippe has two.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This has been edited a little bit, but I'll look it over more.

Philippe had always thought of his creation as some kind of joke on God's part. It's part of the reason he was always bartering with the man because he feels like he deserved some type of restitution every now and then.

That being said, escaping from the fortress that was Aquila seemed to be an impossible task, even for him. Yet, he still asked and God answered like he always seemed too when Philippe was in dire need.

Philippe thought this was repayment for all the hardships that plagued him. He later learned that God was just keeping him alive to throw him back into trouble. Probably for amusement.

For example, he had just escaped for the best-guarded prison in all of France, only to freeze to death hours later.

Philippe pulled his sleeves down further to cover his freezing hands as if the thin fabric would do anything to stop the biting chill from numbing his already stiff hands.

"Think of warm things, Philippe," he said to himself, bringing his icy hands to his mouth, blowing warm air over them, "You've gotten out of worse scrapes than this."

Philippe stuck his hands under his armpits as he clambered over the piles of snow and frozen rocks, following the river, hoping that he was going the right way. Trying not to think about the very real possibility of death.

Almost absent-mindedly, Philippe lightly ran his fingers over the inky black cursive of his soul words. The touch sent a pleasant tingling sensation through his numb fingers. Warmth bloomed in his chest, fending off the cold for a moment. Philippe repeated the gentle touch on his left arm, seeking the warm thrill it sent through his body.

This was were Philippe assumed the Lord got the majority of his amusement from. Giving Philippe two soul mates when he was only supposed to have one, like everyone one else.

The church was convinced that having two soul mates or a same-sex soulmate was inherently evil, that you'd somehow twisted the gift of God, that something was broken deep within yourself. Something that could never be fixed, and therefore, must be destroyed.

The marks landed him in jail long before his thieving ever did.

The words develop as one grows from child to adult. Philippe's came in at the age of twelve, later than usual. So late in fact, that his mother worried he would get any at all, a sure sign that God had abandoned him once and for all.

He remembered clearly when the words came in. A gentle burning on his forearms as the cursive rose to the surface of his skin. His mother didn't even consider there might have been more than one, she just saw the phrase, grabbed his hand, and dragged him to the nearest church so a priest could read the words for them.

Philippe remembered how the priest smiled gently, taking his left arm and reading the words. "I know." The words clear as day, they still ring in his ears every time he thinks of them. Philippe had ignored the man as he explained the importance of soul mates and staying true to them, especially before he met his.

Philippe hadn't cared, too anxious to know what the other arm read.

He stopped the priest mid-sentence by shoving his right arm towards him, pulling the sleeve up so the priest could see the words. "What about these ones?" Philippe had asked, voice full of child-like wonder, forgetting everything his mother had taught him about soul mates in his excitement.

The priest froze instantly before inspecting the right arm closer. Philippe remembered how he whispered, "You, out" fervently, squinting at them like he was trying to solve a math equation.

He rubbed at the words as if expecting them to come right off as if Philippe was just playing a stupid joke. When they didn't, the man dropped the hand like it burned him.

Philippe had looked at the man in confusion. The confusion only grew as he turned to his mother, only to see her face covered in tears as she refused to meet his eyes. "Mother? Is something wrong?" He reached out for her but she flinched out of his grasp.

When Philippe turned back around, the priest was gone, replaced by city guards instead. He cried out as one of them grabbed his arm and pulled him from the church. He cried the entire night through, begging for his mother, but no one listened or seemed to care. The guards ignored him, the other prisoners laughed. So, Philippe turned to the one person he thought stilled cared. God.

By morning, Philippe was gone.

After that, Philippe travelled place to place, stealing just to eat, refusing to stay anywhere long enough for someone to find out his secret.

Philippe had heard his words spoken hundreds of times, each time he cut town that very same day. He refused to even chance meeting either one of his soul mates. Refused to see the rejection on their face, see them flinch away from his touch. He'd rather be alone.

So yes, God seemed to warp and wrench Philippe's every achievement, turn every good thing to ash then burn the bad just to make them worse. 

Still, Philippe was optimistic as he entered the first town he'd seen since escaping Aquila. His toes were still numb from the cold, but they were quickly thawing. The adrenaline of escaping the inescapable, then surviving that frozen wasteland, pounded through Philippe's blood.

Philippe blamed that adrenaline for loosening his tongue as he bought a round of drinks, eager brag about his daring escape from the clutches of Aquila's dungeon.

As the cloak fell away to reveal the current captain of the guard, Captain Marquet, Philippe didn't even have to think. His body so used to running, that it shot into action at the first sign of danger.

There were only so many places to run in the crowded outdoor bar, and there was no way Philippe could outrun so many guards at once. Instinct could only get him so far, so when his brain finally caught up worth his body he stopped running and starting avoiding blows and hiding.

Of course, Philippe knew there would be a day when his luck ran out and it seemed like God wasn't listening anymore.

Sitting on top of the unstable terrace cover, jumping from one loosely tied log to the next to avoid the quick jabs of swords, Philippe had a sinking feeling that today was that day.

Philippe ran until he hit the edge of the terrace, crouching and scanning the surroundings to see if there was any possible place for him to go. At this point, Philippe would take anything other than certain death.

That's when he caught Captain Marquet's eye and saw the self-satisfied smirk that spread across the other's face like he'd already won and Philippe was already dead. The captain pointed to the ground, obviously wanting Philippe to surrender.

Philippe hesitated but a moment. If he stayed on his perch he would die, almost certainly. A guard would get lucky with a sword, or maybe a crossbow. But, if he jumped down, he could try and talk his way out… or use his knife. Even if neither of those things worked, they'd take him back to Aquila then hang him, giving him a few extra days to live.

He jumped down, expecting to be caught. What he was not expecting was the hand in his hair, yanking his head back. The sudden hold triggered Philippe's fight or flight response immediately.

His body once again ran ahead of his brain, unsheathing his dagger and slashing at the guards and making a wild run for it. Philippe felt his knife connect but he didn't see who until his brain caught up with his body again.

"I am so terribly sorry," he apologized as Captain Marquet wiped the blood from his sliced cheek. It was more a desperate attempt to save himself than an actual apology, but Philippe's mind was reeling. He was going to die. Here and now. He was sure of it… yet his mind violently rejected that thought, still making increasingly impossible plans.

"Kill him."

Philippe's blood ran cold as he was shoved against a wooden post. Panic bubbled in his chest. He couldn't breathe. His mind was racing through his life of regrets before it got lost in his panic.

"May God have mercy on my soul!" Philippe yelled out, almost subconsciously. The glinting steel swung fast to his throat. Philippe closed his eyes and braced himself.

A cry rang through the air, yet it was not his own. Philippe tentatively opened his eyes, expected to be… well dead, but death looked an awful lot like life.

Yes, Philippe had to be dead, because there was no way the handsome blond man in black was real.

The man pointed his crossbow at the men holding Philippe, but his blue eyes were piercing Philippe's. Maybe that was the reason Philippe still felt he couldn't breathe.

"You, out."

Philippe's brain stopped. Warmth flooded through his body, staring at his chest and pumping out with each heartbeat. The hands holding his arms let go, but Philippe could barely move, body completely numb with shock.

His survival instincts kicked in, shuffling his legs forward, towards the man. The man shoved the crossbow to him. Though their fingertips brushed for just a moment, and the man was wearing gloves, tingling shot up Philippe's arm, waking up the limb.

Philippe refused to look back as he gripped the crossbow and ran.

"You can't even give me one break today, can you Lord?" Philippe cursed under his breath as he fell from the horse yet another time. He huffed and brushed the dirt off before cutting his losses and running, "I'm not saying you must Lord, but it truly would be appreciated from time to time."

At the time, it seemed like Philippe's pleas fell on deaf ears as he heard the thundering gallop of a horse from behind him. Philippe urged his legs faster, but he knew it was all in vain.

A strong hand gripped the back of his stolen shirt tightly. Philippe clenched his eyes shut, hoping for a swift death as the shirt collar choked him. But instead of death, he was lifted from the ground and thrown over the front of a horse.

For a moment Philippe was sure the guards had caught up to him and were taking him back to Aquila for hanging. His heart clenched tightly out of grief, not for his own life, but for the handsome man in black that had surely died trying to save him. Confusion weld up beside the grief… Philippe had never cared for another's life over his own before, could it be because of-

No. Philippe shoved the thoughts and emotion to the back of his brain. They were just words. Words he had heard hundreds of times before. They didn't mean anything. He pointedly ignored the fact that those words had never made him feel the way he did when the man said to them, refusing to believe that he could deserve the love of someone like that.

He forced his eyes open, but he didn't see the blood-red of the guard's cloaks. No, he saw black, as dark as the night.

Philippe's breath caught in his throat as relief flooded his chest. He completely forgot about trying to escape, feeling safe being pressed against the man.

They galloped across the countryside like that for a long while in complete silence. For the first time in his life, Philippe had no idea what to say so he said nothing. He wasn't even sure he could form words if he tried.

They entered a thick forest and soon after that, the man slowed his horse to a trot. Then a walk. Then they stopped next to a small, barely trickling stream.

The man in black dismounted, leaving Philippe to wonder if he should dismount as well, and if so, how he would even do that.

He wasn't left to wonder long as strong hands grasped his sides, pulling him from the horse, firmly but there was an underlying gentleness that made Philippe's insides churn for reasons he refused to think about.

"I think they're gone," the man said, his steely gaze locked on Philippe making him shift comfortably.

"That's - good," Philippe stuttered, breaking the gaze and instead focusing on playing with a torn edge on his shirt.

The man tilted his head, examining Philippe closer like there had to be more to him than what he could see. Philippe snorted internally, used to people being disappointed in him.

"Why were the guards of Aquila chasing you?" the man asked finally.

Philippe shifted away from him a little. The man looked the type to turn him in if he could… but he had saved him, so Philippe thought he owed him the truth, "I escaped from the dungeons of Aquila."

The man scoffed, "The dungeons of Aquila are impenetrable."

Philippe glared, offended that the man thought him a liar, "It's true, sir! Why else would the guards chase me so far away from Aquila?" Philippe countered.

The man looked away for the first time, hiding the small smile the flickered across his serious face. Philippe was captivated by it, smiling in return despite himself.

The man passed Philippe to stroke his horse's neck gently as it gulped down water. "I apologize for my skepticism. You would not have made it so far when I was with the guard." He turned sharply, fixing Philippe with that stare once again.

Philippe took a few steps back, "You were with the guard?" Phillip's eyes darted up to the heavens, silently cursing God for putting him in these situations over and over again.

"Don't worry," The man chuckled at his trepidation, "I'm a bigger fugitive than you'll ever be."

Philippe cocked his head, "I'm sorry, sir?"

The man tugs the reins of his horse, pulling it from the stream, "The bishop and I haven't always seen eye to eye," he said, eyes flicking away from Philippe's. He mounted the horse in one fluid motion, that Philippe was almost jealous of. "Come on. We should keep moving."

Wait. Philippe wasn't going to be left behind? He eyed the man and the horse carefully as he approached like they would run off just as he got closed enough to touch them.

The man held his hand out to assist Philippe up as one might do for a lady. Philippe blushed deeply out of what he convinced himself was embarrassment as he took the gloved hand.

As Philippe settled behind him he hesitated on what to do with his hands. Obviously, he should put them around the man's waist, especially if they were going to be galloping across the uneven forest floor. Yet, Philippe would almost prefer falling off the horse then wrapping his arms around that perfectly sculpted waist. Having to pull his body flush with the man's back, and his-

Philippe's face flushed bright red, choking on his own spit as he took in a calming breath. The man said nothing as he half-turned to take Philippe's arms and wrap them around his waist. As the man turned back, Philippe swore he saw that little smile again, like the man knew exactly what Philippe was thinking. Which was completely impossible because why would the man be thinking anything close to what Philippe was thinking.

The man kicked his horse into a quick trot, the horse's head lifted proudly as it kicks its feet high off the ground. Philippe tightened his grip around the man's waist, as to not fall off.

"You've never told me your name," the man said. Philippe could feel the vibrations of his voice against his chest from where it was pressed against his back.

"Uh- It's Philippe Gaston, sir. Most people just call me mouse. Sir-" Philippe's fingers curled against the man's side in discomfort before he continued, "Sir, you have not shared yours either."

The man turned his head, just enough to meet Philippe's eyes. "Etienne of Navarre."

"Well sir, It's- uh- good to meet you, sir," Philippe stammered, feeling the need to fill the silence even if it makes him sound like an idiot. Navarre doesn't answer, but Philippe feels him huff a little. He wants to bury his face in the man's shoulder.

It was silent after that, just the soothing sounds of chirping birds and the wind rustling through the trees lulling Philippe into a sense of peace, that he hadn't thought was possible.

The man in front of him confused him. He was noble, honourable, brave everything that Philippe himself wasn't. Yet, he was keeping Philippe around when he could have ditched him by the stream. Or just let

the guards kill him while they had the chance.

Philippe couldn't fathom what use he would be to a man such as Navarre and Philippe refused to believe it was because of the words because he was sure the Navarre wasn't one of his soulmates. Philippe didn't even let that thought cross his mind no matter how many times it fluttered against the edge.

He huffed a sigh and shifted closer to Navarre almost unconsciously. He was too exhausted to deal with this. Between the prison of Aquila, then that frozen wasteland, Philippe hadn't had a good night's sleep - or any sleep, really - in over two weeks.

His eyelashes fluttered, brushing his cheeks gently as he tried and failed to keep them open. It would be so easy for Philippe to just lean against the warmth of Navarre. Navarre didn't seem like the type to murder him in cold blood and even if he did, Philippe could shake the feeling that Navarre wouldn't hurt him even if he had cause.

Before he could stop himself, Philippe's body slackened so he was slouched against the captain. The sound of his heart against Philippe's ear along with the rhythmic rocking of the horse below them lulled Philippe into a deep sleep.

________________________________________________________________ 

Philippe was jostled awake as Navarre tugged on the reins slightly, consequently pushing back into Philippe and slowing the horse down.

Philippe wasn't fully awake yet when a gentle gloved hand landed on his own where they were wrapped around the captain's waist. Philippe was awake after that.

He stayed stiff behind the man, yet not too stiff as to give away that he was actually awake. Navarre was holding his hand. Probably just to keep him in place as he slept, but still Philippe's brain could barely process anything only that that simple fact.

Philippe couldn't remember the last time someone touched him like that. It was probably his mother, but that was so long ago and he didn't want the memory of her to spoil this moment. Philippe didn't want to think at all. All Philippe wanted to do was flip over his hand and interlock his with the one that felt like it belonged there.

But he didn't. Instead, he settled for burying his face into Navarre's back and letting himself drift back to sleep.

When Philippe work again they were coming up to a farm that looked more like an old cabin in the woods than a farm, but Philippe had never even owned a house before so who was he to judge?

For a moment, it looked as though it had been abandoned, but then Philippe spotted smoke and he didn't know any better way to show Navarre that he was awake than by pointing out the obvious.

Navarre shook his head, but said nothing else about his remark, just a simple, "We'll stay the night here."

Philippe furrowed his brow and looked up at the fading light. Yes, it was darker than it had been when they left, but there would still be enough light left to see for hours. Philippe didn't want to stop so early in the day while there were still guards of Aquila chasing them.

"Why? There is still plenty of light to ride by." Philippe looked around the farm in disdain. A woman who he could only assume was the farmer's wife say them and started screaming for her husband. Surely they could find a better place than this.

Navarre slowed his horse as he turned his head just enough to look at Philippe from the corner of his eye. "My horse is tired and you're tired. We need a place to rest before you fall off my horse."

Philippe gave an irritated huff. He wanted to cross his arms too but then he might fall off the horse, "I wouldn't have fallen off the horse," he muttered under his breath, "Besides, this place is too strange for my tastes." Philippe said, louder this time.

Navarre actually laughed at that. Philippe grinned a little despite himself, proud he could make the stoic man do anything other than pout. "After the dungeons of Aquila, are you still so finicky about your lodging?"

"I'm a thief, captain, not a barbarian. I retained my standards," Philippe argued in mock indignation.

Navarre laughed again, even better than the first because this time Philippe actually wanted to make him laugh.

After that, they got rooms in the barn, mostly thanks to Philippe flashing the farmer money that he never intended to give him, but Philippe didn't even want to stay here in the first place so he didn't feel too bad about it.

Philippe returned to Navarre after taking care of Goliath for him, the horse warming up to him after he apologized profusely to the horse. The Philippe was prepared to again tell him that he was turning in for the night, but when he spotted the man he seemed to be deep in thought while staring at the hawk perch on his arm.

Philippe had seen the hawk circling for most of their ride through the countryside, but hadn't seen it once they got into the forest and he couldn't remember his first interaction with Navarre enough to know if the hawk was there or not.

Still, the hawk had strings tied to her legs and she seemed docile enough, so she was obviously a pet of some sort. How a man like Navarre obtained a pet hawk, Philippe didn't know but Philippe was beginning to see that there was a lot about Navarre he wouldn't know or understand.

Either way, he had been raised to not stare, so he cleared his throat, "Sir if there's nothing else you need, I think I'm going to turn in."

Navarre looked startled but his gaze hardened back into that emotionless mask the second he laid his eyes on Philippe. "We'll need firewood if we're not to freeze during the night."

"Yes, sir," Philippe said bitterly before turning and stalking away from the captain.

How much did that man expect him to do? Philippe just wanted to go to bed, he hadn't slept someplace where he was reasonably sure he wouldn't be murdered in a long time. But no. Navarre needed fire would and he used to be a high and mighty captain while Philippe was just some common thief.

"A common thief who was the first to escape from Aquila," Philippe muttered to himself as he snatched a piece of wood from the ground. Still squatting, Philippe turned his head to the sky, "Thanks for that by the way, Lord. Oh, and everything after that? Great surprise. Thank you so much." Philippe stood and threw the stick he just picked up back down.

Why was he even still here? He didn't owe Navarre anything, he could just cut and run like normal. He should… but if-

Philippe rubbed the skin of his right arm. If Navarre really was one of Philippe's soulmates, one of the people God intended for him to be with no matter what didn't Philippe owe it to Navarre to stay? How would Navarre feel if Philippe just left? Did he even care that Philippe was there at all?

Philippe shook his head and picked up another stick. If Navarre didn't want him here then he wouldn't have kept him. Philippe chanted that over and over in his head. He couldn't leave because he was wanted here, where else could he say that and it be true?

Philippe sighed while stacking stick on the ground for him to pick up later. Besides, didn't he owe it to God to stay, after he helped him escape from Aquila?

Philippe grabbed the bundle of sticks, resigned to the fate God seemed to be forcing upon him. He wouldn't leave Navarre until the man demanded it of him, which, knowing Philippe's luck, wouldn't be long anyway.

Just as he was turning back to camp Philippe heard a rustling from the bushes. Shit. He told Navarre they should have kept going and now he was the one that we going to be killed for it.

He dropped the sticks and started talking to himself, trying to trick the guards into thinking there were more people there than there actually were, hoping that they couldn't already see him and he would die looking like an idiot.

As the sound got closer, Philippe dropped the ruse and ran for Navarre. At least he had a sword.

Philippe crashed into the so-called barn where they were staying the night. He ripped open the door to Navarre's sleeping space even though the man said not to. Philippe figured being chased by angry guards was a good enough reason to intrude on the man's beauty rest. No, that he even needed it.

Navarre wasn't there, and neither was the hawk Philippe realized. Philippe tried to push the panic that was building in his chest. Navarre was just out for a walkabout or something, all his stuff was still here and he wouldn't just leave without it.

Philippe rushed from the barn to… well, he didn't really know where but he had to find Navarre and make sure he was alr- No, he had to find Navarre because the man could protect him. That was it.

The rustling got louder as Philippe ran to the farmhouse. Philippe forced himself to turn and face the threat head-on.

Instead of an army of guards with their swords raised, ready to take his head off in one swing, Philippe came face to face with a huge black wolf lunging straight for his throat.

He didn't even have time to duck before the beast leapt over his shoulder. Once Philippe realized that he wasn't dead, he fell to the floor in fear, only to fall onto the farmer. He didn't even notice blood was gushing from the man's neck until the warm, sticky liquid covered his hands.

The farmer was dead before he hit the ground, the wolf completely tearing out his throat in one deadly bite. Beside the man, was his axe, the one he had used to threaten Philippe and Navarre early. Philippe couldn't help but notice, that if the man was that close behind him, wielding an axe like that, he probably hadn't come to Philippe's rescue.

That meant that… Philippe's gaze rose from the dead man's throat to the black wolf who was sitting not five feet away, as docile as a pup.

Everything within Philippe was telling him to run back to the barn and hope the wolf doesn't come for him… but he doesn't. Instead, he got back on his feet and in a crouch, walks slowly towards the wolf.

"Nice wolf, nice boy…" Philippe cooed as he approached. The wolf tilted his head at Philippe but he didn't move forward or back, so Philippe assumed it was okay for him to keep approaching.

When he was just an arm's length away he stopped and before he could lose his nerve extended his arm so slowly, you could barely see it move.

The wolf stood up and padded a few steps closer and sniffed Philippe's hand. Philippe froze. If the wolf smelled something he liked, then Philippe's hand was gone, but if he moved the wolf might get scared and attack him anyway. He silently prays to the Lord above that his idiotic plan didn't get him killed.

Philippe flinched and squeezed his eyes shut as something cold and wet hit his hand. He braced himself for pain and said his last farewells to his hand… but then the wet thing nudged his hand again. Then instead of just wetness, there was fur as soft as down nudging him.

He tentatively opened one eye, like even this small movement would lead the wolf to attack. The wolf was sitting at his feet tail wagging against the dirt, brushing it over the blood pooling on the ground, nudging Philippe's hand with his snout.

Philippe let out a bark of laughter just at the absurdity of it all. Gently, he ran his blood-soaked fingers over the wolf's snout. He didn't seem to mind, in fact, his tail wagged faster.

"You like that, do you boy?" Philippe asked him, bringing up another hand to pet the wolf's snout. The wolf let out a low howl in reply and let at Philippe's face, covering it in wet licks. Philippe laughed and pushed the wolf down before settling on the ground next to him. The wolf rested his head in Philippe's lap.

Philippe's eyes darted from the blood-soaked corpse to the wolf sitting quietly in his lap, to the discarded axe. "Did you save me, boy?" Philippe asked while absently stroking his muzzle.

To his surprise, the wolf answered with a low whine. Philippe scratched him behind the ear, "Yeah, you're sweet boy, aren't you? Wouldn't hurt a fly." He glanced over at the farmer, "Well, apart from the obvious." The wolf let out a low chuffing noise at Philippe's poor attempt at a joke.

The bushes rustled behind Philippe from somewhere. He barely noticed but the wolf jumped to hid feet and growled at the bushes. Philippe tried to calm the wolf by stroking his fluffed pelt, but in a flash the wolf curled backwards and snapped at Philippe's hand, almost close enough to bite.

Philippe flinched back so hard he fell backwards. The docile wolf lying in Philippe's lap a moment ago was gone and in his place, there was a monster. The wolf growled at him lowly, belly close to the ground, ready to leap.

Philippe scrambled backwards, tripping over his own feet before finally finding his footing and running back to the barn.

He grabbed the ladder leading to where Navarre left his crossbow, but then let go. Philippe worried his lip. The wolf could rush in here at any moment and kill him like he killed the farmer… but the wolf had sat with him, let him pet him.

He let the ladder go and watched the wolf from the behind the wooden screen.

The wolf eye him and stalked towards him, his black eyes pining Philippe to the spot. He didn't even think to pray to God for safety, too busy getting lost in the wolf's gaze.

Suddenly, Philippe felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling his eyes away from the wolf to the woman standing behind him. She was the most beautiful woman Philippe had ever seen. Skin like hand-crafted porcelain, eyes shining like the glistening shores of the ocean.

The woman dropped her hand and turned from him towards the wolf. Philippe's heart stopped. He could not let harm come to this woman. Philippe grabbed her by the shoulder, "Don't go out there! Don't go out there!"

The woman froze under his touch and stared hard into his eyes. Philippe's eyes widened, assuming the woman was upset he touched him. Philippe removed his hand quickly, but still insisted that she not go out there, "There's a wolf out there!"

The woman paused a moment, before answering in a voice like a bell made of crystal, "I know."

Philippe was struck to the core. Did she just- No. Philippe stood in shock as she passed him out of the barn towards the wolf.

Philippe heard a low whine from outside the barn which broke him out of his daze. Through the wooden screen, he watched the lady stoop down and let the wolf sniff her hand, much like Philippe had a moment ago.

She rose and walked off. The wolf followed her, leaving Philippe along on the farm.

Philippe turned and leaned against the wooden screen, then slid down the wall, too shocked to do anything other than pull his knees to his chest. Everything Philippe had run from his entire life showed up in one day. Philippe buried his head in his knees and groaned.

"What did I do to deserve this, Lord?"

As normal, God never answered the way Philippe wanted him to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for some reason the story was marked as finished, which is very much is not. Sorry for the wait. You know, life and stuff. Also thank you so much to the people that commented! This is for the like five people actually reading the story :P 
> 
> Fixed the formatting

Philippe didn’t sleep the entire night, just stayed there, legs tucked against his chest under tightly wrapped arms, back flush against the hard wood of the barn, cold seeping through his stolen shirt. He watched the sun rise as its light crept along the ground, until the glinting light in his eye became too much.

His limbs ached as he stretched from the hard ground in what was probably hours. For the first time Philippe regretted dropping the bundle of firewood he’d collect as he flexed his aching fingers, trying to bring some warmth into them. The cold wasn’t as bad as it had been just days before.

Philippe cupped his hands to blow hot air between them but stopped suddenly. Blood covered his hands, drying into a crusty layer that flaked off around the seams of his fingers. Caught in the blood was tuffs of course, black fur.

So, the night before hadn’t been a dream at all, the wolf, the woman… a real. Just the thought of that made Philippe want to run, and not for the first time since escaping from Aquilla.

Instead he grabbed the hem of his over and under shirt to pull them over his head. Then grabbing a waterskin of water, since Philippe hadn’t seen a stream anywhere by, he soaked the under shirt and used it to methodically scrap the blood and fur from his hands. The one-time Philippe had entered a town covered in blood he was arrested on site, no care if the blood was his or not. Philippe sighed and stared down at the now pink shirt. The only difference here was that this time it actually wasn’t his blood.

Nose wrinkled; Philippe scrubbed roughly at the crevasses of his nails. Still, Philippe couldn’t bring himself to mourn the farmer’s death. Instead he could only think of the black wolf who saved his life. No one in his life had ever cared if he’d lived or died, now a stray wolf took it upon himself to save it. Philippe scoffed at the very idea, but the blood still lining his nails was evidence enough that it was real.

By the time Philippe’s hands were only stained pink instead of the scarlet they had been before, the undershirt was soaked in water and blood. Still, they were the only clothes Philippe had and there was no where to wash or dry it.

The wet shirt clung to Philippe’s skin as the cool morning air chilled it until Philippe was sure he could see it frosting over. Philippe grabbed the overshirt from the ground, hoping that it would somehow block the chill of the morning once he pulled it on.

But once Philippe flipped the shirt to the back, he caught sight of the dark stain of blood cascading down the back of the ugly yellow-brown shirt.

With the night Philippe just had, standing in the middle of that tattered barn with a dead farmer just steps away, that bloody shirt in his hand and the sodden undershirt chilling him to the bone was the last straw.

“What have I ever done to deserve this?” Philippe could think of plenty of things he’s done to deserve this, but at that moment he was too furious to care, “Do you think this is funny? Is that why you’ve plagued me with all these unfortunes?”

Philippe throw the shirt and stared at it pouting, hands wrapped around his chest like a spoiled two-year-old throwing a tantrum.

“Has it done something to offend you?” A voice asked from behind him. Philippe jumped. For one chilling moment, Philippe thought it was the voice of God come to smite him for all he’s said. Fighting against his instinct to run and instead turned to the voice. He sighed in relief when he saw it was just the Captain.

After the initial relief, Philippe couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. Afterall he hadn’t even worried for the man all night, nor did he try to look for him. Though now seeing Navarre in front of him, a weight Philippe didn’t even know he was carrying faded away.

Philippe smiled good naturedly, “It’s not really my colour. I’d never really seen it until this morning. Too busy running for my life yesterday.”

Navarre let out a huff, not really laughing but Philippe counted it as a win. The man gestured to Philippe’s pinkened undershirt, “And that is your colour I suppose?”

“Oh this?” Philippe pulled at the fabric that stuck to his skin, “Uh, no. This is an unfortunate by-product of last night.” Navarre cocked an eyebrow and leaned against the wooden post. Philippe couldn’t tell if he was curious or confused, so he continued, “Strange dreams,” Philippe answered dismissively. Philippe knew they weren’t dreams, but the events of last night were impossible. Philippe would sound like a fool for even telling them.

Navarre hummed, “You’ll have to tell me about them later. We should leave now before the bishop’s men catch up to us.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Navarre brushed past Philippe into the stall he’d claimed for himself last night. Philippe wasn’t sure what to do so he kind of just stooped to grab his shirt and just stared at it.

“Here,” The captain’s voice came from the stall. Philippe had just enough time to look up before a soft, black cloth hit him in the face, “You can’t walk around like that in town. You’ll get arrested. Or killed.”

Philippe dropped his bloody shirt and held the offered shirt out in front of him. It was black and simple, made of loose, flowing fabric that Philippe was quite sure he would drown in. Still he wouldn’t reject the shirt.

“It my fashion so bad that the town’s folk will revolt on sight?” Philippe draped the shirt over a post so he could take off the wet under shirt.

Navarre appeared at the half door, resting his forearms on it, “No. It’s because of that,” he nodded to Philippe’s forearms where the two soul marks where _very_ visible.

Philippe blushed furiously and crossed his arms protectively over his chest. He took a few unintentional steps away from the captain out of reflex, eying the nearest exits, ready to bolt any second.

“Philippe.” The captain called sternly, yet there was a soft gentleness in his voice, “It doesn’t matter. Not to me, at least.”

Philippe forced his eye to the other man’s and was surprised to only find sincerity and maybe a little underlying humour at Philippe’s reaction.

He forced himself to relax and nod. Not saying anything as he changed shirts.

Philippe continued his silence as they packed what few possessions they had, flinching whenever the captain brushed his hand or arm accidentally. The older man looked at him with a clouded expression but didn’t say anything. Philippe wasn’t sure he would have answered.

The captain said he didn’t care, but Philippe had heard that before and ended up in a cell the next day, betrayed for couple of silvers. Philippe didn’t think Navarre would do that, but he wasn’t going to push the man or say the wrong thing and make him change his mind. As much as Philippe hated to admit it, he needed the captain. He’d be lost in the forest without him as a guide or captured by the bishop’s men without his protection.

Philippe only murmured a thank you to the man as he helped him onto Goliath. Philippe tried not to hold Navarre too tightly and he did not let himself fall asleep.

____________________________________________________________________  
  


They stopped for lunch once the sun had risen well into the sky. Philippe was hungry enough that he didn’t protest when Navarre told him to make a fire and cook lunch for them while the man slept, cloak covering his face and a hawk perched on his arm, watching Philippe’s every move

The way the hawk’s yellow eyes seemed to be examining Philippe seemed too... knowing. Too much like the animal knew what Philippe was doing, like his movements weren’t just random motions that. Philippe couldn’t explain it, but the hawk- there was just something strange about it. It was the same feeling he got about the wolf the night before.

Philippe couldn’t remember if he saw the captain with the hawk the previous day, but he must have as the hawk looked quite docile. It sat perched beside Navarre as he slept and gave no notion that it would take off. It didn’t even wear a hood like most hunting hawks.

The hawk cocked its head at him, like it knew he was thinking about it. The way its eye pierced through him made Philippe uncomfortable enough that he broke away from the clearing to collect sticks for their fire then find something to eat.

Usually in the quiet Philippe would take the time to speak to God, maybe ask him why he’d saddled Philippe with the harshest burdens life had to offer, like dangling two very attract people who may or may not be his soulmates in front of his face, but Philippe had decided he was upset with the man upstairs and would be ignoring him just like he ignores Philippe. Instead, the thief took a moment to think about… just everything that had happened in the past _day_.

First there was meeting captain Navarre, who just so happened to be one of Philippe’s soulmates. Not that Philippe was complaining, but also there was the fact that Navarre hadn’t mentioned anything about Philippe being his soulmate, so the only logical answer was that Navarre wasn’t his soulmate. He had even seen the words and Philippe was fairly certain Navarre knew how to read. But he’d been okay with it. No one Philippe had ever met was okay with it. Didn’t that seem like something a soulmate would do?

Philippe dropped the pile of wood he’d been idling collecting while pondering over his life’s problems by a large rock, so he’d remember where he’d placed it. Then he set off to hopefully find a rabbit in the under brush. Rabbit hunting was far from a mindless task, yet Philippe couldn’t keep his thoughts focused.

Okay, Philippe thought, assuming for one second that Navarre _was _his soulmate, where did that leave the lady from last night? She spoke his words, yet she was more beautiful that could be imagined, and Philippe couldn’t help that maybe the days of cold and hunger after his escape from Aquila had caused him to hallucinate. First the wolf, then the lady. It couldn’t be real, where had the woman even come from? They were in the middle of the forest, nothing about it made sense… yet his bloodied shirt was proof enough that the wolf was real and if that was real, why couldn’t the lady be?

If Philippe was humoring himself into thinking that the wolf and the lady were real and that she was, in fact, his soulmate, _and _Navarre was his soulmate as well… then what did that all mean. Did Navarre and the lady have two words like him? It would make sense why Navarre didn’t despise him for his words, because to despise Philippe would be to despise himself. The lady seemed to recognized Philippe when he spoke to her, but she too didn’t say anything.

Why?

Philippe stopped dead in his tracks as the obvious answer slapped him in the face.

They didn’t say anything because _they didn’t want him_.

Who was Philippe kidding? He was a _thief, _Navarre was a captain, though currently on the run for some unknown crime, Philippe couldn’t possibly be what Navarre wanted. And the lady? One look between himself and her and even a blind man could see they weren’t compatible. If they had two words like Philippe did, they must have taken one look at him and hoped their other soulmate was better.

Philippe deflated. He couldn’t argue that Navarre and the lady would make a handsome pair. They didn’t need him tagging along. He should leave right then. Philippe glanced back to the clearing. He couldn’t even see the captain anymore.

He didn’t know where he was… but Philippe had made it out of worse situations than this. He didn’t even have to squeeze through bars or swim through a sewer to be free.

Philippe steeled himself to leave, but it seemed that as soon as he took his first step a hawk’s piercing cry came from above. The sound stopped Philippe dead, and he watched the hawk descend from the skies and perch itself on a fallen log in front of Philippe.

It stared up at Philippe, perfectly still. The eery feeling he got from it earlier returned. As it stared at Philippe, he felt his heart pound in his chest, like it knew what Philippe was about to do.

It was absurd. The feeling in his chest. This was just a dumb bird, trained to look like it was smart. Yet, Philippe could not break eye contact. Still, a minute of looking into those piercing yellow eyes couldn’t undo almost two decades of running away.

He took another step. The bird cocked its head, judgment clear in its eyes, but that still didn’t stop Philippe. He took another step.

In a flurry of wings, the bird was off the log and in the air, diving towards Philippe. The wind from its powerful wings blew his already messy hair and thundered in his ears as it flew around his head angrily.

Philippe dove to the ground, hands covering his head to block any attacks the bird may unleash. He felt its beak gently nip his back, but that was it.

Instead of more pecks, Philippe felt his shirt getting tighter around his chest and neck, like something was pulling it.

At first Philippe was terrified that the bishop’s men had caught up with him, then he was even more terrified that maybe _Navarre_ had caught up to him. Then he felt the cold air beating against his back from the hawk’s wings.

Was the hawk… trying to pull him? Philippe lifted his head and peered behind him. The hawk was furiously flapping its wings. It was so determined that Philippe was surprised the fabric hadn’t ripped.

Finally, when Philippe was sure the bird wouldn’t hurt him, he stood and shooed the bird away, “Okay, okay! What is it that you want?” Philippe huffed.

The bird landed a few feet away and stared at Philippe expectantly. If Philippe tried to take a step in any direction that wasn’t towards the camp the hawk would shriek and raise its wings.

Philippe took a few steps towards it and knelt, “Nice birdy,” he cooed as he reached out a hesitant hand toward it. To his surprise, instead of peeking at the finger, the bird nuzzled its head into it without hesitation.

“You’re a good bird, aren’t you?” Philippe praised as he rubbed its head gently, “I can see why the captain keeps you around.” The bird chirped happily at the mention of Navarre, or maybe at Philippe’s praise.

“Now, you’re much too big to be a male, so I’m suppose you must be a girl,” Philippe pondered out loud, “You’re a little lady, aren’t you?” The bird chirped again.

Philippe laughed and scratched under her chin, “Now my lady, would you like to help me catch supper?”

____________________________________________________________________

With the fire going, small but still enough to cook, and a rabbit roasting over it. Philippe settled on a rock opposite the Captain and just watched the flames.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright, Philippe?” Navarre’s muffled voice drifted across the fire.

“Sir?” Philippe asked, shocked that Navarre cared about his emotions at all. Or that the other man even remembered his name.

“You’ve seemed off all morning.”

Philippe scoffed. He’d only been what the other man called ‘off’ since he’d discovered a most dangerous secret Philippe had. Yet Philippe couldn’t blame the man. He was the one being careless.

“You said you had strange dreams last night,” he elaborated.

“Ah yes,” Philippe said, poking the fire with a stick avoid looking at Navarre’s cloaked figure, “They were only strange because I’m not sure if they were dreams or not.”

Navarre gave a short hum, indicating he wanted Philippe to continue which he did.

“There was a big black wolf, biggest I’d ever seen. I though he was chasing me at first, and maybe he was but that’s the not the point. As I ran from him, I made it back to the farm, only you weren’t there so I ran to the farmhouse.

“There was a rustling from the bushes behind me, so I turned to face the beast head on. He lunged at me, fangs ready to sink themselves in my throat, or so I thought!

“The wolf leaped over my shoulder and sank his fangs into the farmer behind me. It was minutes later that I realized the farmer was poised to kill me. The wolf saved my life.”

When Philippe looked up again, Navarre was no longer under his cloak sleeping, instead he was sitting up looking intently at Philippe, “what else happened?”

Philippe raised a dismissive hand, “Don’t trouble yourself with it. I’m sure it was just a meaningless dream.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Navarre looked at Philippe so intensely that the other man felt compelled to continue. He told Navarre of the wolf turning to attack him, and then of the woman.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Navarre apologized.

“It was just a dream,” Philippe forced himself to smile at the other man, trying to lighten the foul mood that had settled between them, “Let us speak of other things.”

____________________________________________________________________

That night Navarre told Philippe he had business to attend to during the night, though Philippe didn’t know what sort of business the man could get up to in the middle of the forest, but Philippe thought it best not to ask. Instead, Philippe sat by the low fire hoping that the Marquet and his men had not followed them into the forest.

Even though Philippe tried to stay vigilant through out the night, the nights of no rest were catching up to him. Philippe nodded off more times then he could count only to be woken by distant wolves howling.

He was so tired that he didn’t even hear the gentle padding of footsteps approaching his fire.

“Hello,” a soft voice that seemed to carry through the forest, yet Philippe had to strain to hear it. Like the voice of an angel, “may I join your fire?”

Philippe’s head shot up to see the woman with porcelain skin looking down at him from across the fire, a gentle smile gracing her face.

Philippe scrambled to his feet, “Of course, my lady!” he gestured to the place across from him and the lady took it with an amused smile. Philippe would call it a smirk, but the woman’s face was too pure to ever contort itself into something so mischievous. “Would you like something to eat?” Philippe offered the last of the rabbit him and Navarre had shared for dinner and the lady took it almost ravenously, yet dainty.

Philippe watched her while she ate, confused at her very appearance in the woods. When the lady was done, she looked up at Philippe, head tilted and lips quirked up, “If you want to ask me something, you should just ask.”

Philippe was startled into silence for a moment, thinking of all the things he wanted to know, but they all stemmed back into one question, “What are you doing here?”

“I follow wherever I am led,” The woman said simply. Philippe held back a soft chuckle. This woman was beautiful, intelligent, and who knows what else. Philippe felt his heart clench painfully but ignored it.

“Who is leading you?”

“My soul.” Philippe felt his heart stop… she couldn’t be talking about- could she?

“And who would hold something so precious, if I might ask” Philippe kept his tone light, yet his heart pounded for the answer.

“Have you seen a lone black wolf rooming around the woods, lost, searching for someone, anyone who will make him not feel so alone?” She asked cryptically.

She hadn’t answered the question, but Philippe knew how to read between the lines, “My lady, are you saying your soul belongs to a wolf?”

“He wasn’t always one,” She smiled bitterly then turned her piercing blue eyes to Philippe, “besides, he’s not the only one who holds a piece of my soul.”

Philippe’s brow furrowed, “What does that mean, my lady?” Philippe didn’t care about the first part; it was the second part his mind couldn’t process.

A wolf’s howl cried out before the woman could respond. She turned her head towards the noise, standing quickly as if drawn to it by some unknown force.

The woman turned and gave him a look akin to pity, “I think you already know.” With that she turned to leave, but Philippe had one last question for her.

“Wait! My lady, if I may ask, what shall I call you?”

The lady laughed a laugh like bells chiming in the wind, “I am called Isabeau. Until we meet again, Philippe Gaston.”

Isabeau disappeared past the tree line, leaving Philippe to stare after her in shock.


	3. Chapter 3

It was noon the next day before Philippe dared to talk to Navarre. It wasn’t that he feared the man, more that he feared to reveal too much or say the wrong thing. Philippe was quick-witted, but that wit hadn’t stopped everyone from leaving him in the end.

For some reason, the man was leading Goliath from the ground, walking solemnly beside Philippe. Philippe cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to break the silence before talking, “Not to sound ungrateful for your gracious company, Captain, but if I might ask, where are we going.”

Navarre stopped Goliath abruptly. He turned and lay a sharp gaze over Philippe, appraising him as if evaluating whether he was worth the answer. Navarre seemed to make up his mind. He grabbed the hilt of his long sword, pulling it deftly from its sheath.

Philippe flinched back, taking several steps back and raising his hands in defence. He was going to plead for his life, as Philippe was definitely not above pleading, but Navarre steamrolled over him with his seemingly out of now where confession. 

Philippe could care less about the honour of Navarre’s family. The connection to the Holy Church and Crusades did less to frighten Philippe, as they once would have, and did more to confuse him. For such a pious upbringing, Navarre had some pretty open world views. 

Navarre traced the empty socket, eyes a mix of rage, determination and sorrow, “This is mine to fill.”

Philippe couldn’t stand that wistful look in the stoic man he’d been travelling with. Without thinking, Philippe laid his hand over the other man’s, “You say this sword has never seen defeat until you… well, I don’t believe that,” Navarre looked from Philippe’s eyes to his hand then back up. Philippe blushed but forced himself to continue, “In my life, I have been captured and sentenced to death more times than I can count, yet I still live. Because if there is still breath in my body, I refuse to give in to defeat.” 

Philippe let his hand fall. In all honesty, Philippe never allowed himself to remain captured for long, not out of any sense of honour, but more of the fear of death. Philippe was under no illusions to who he was, a coward, but what Navarre need now was not the words of a coward.

“So, my captain, what shall we do to regain your honour?” Philippe tried to be cheerful. It wasn’t within his capabilities to be serious for long.

“There is a man I must kill,” Navarre answered, face clear of any emotions.

The look didn’t scare Philippe, in fact, it almost excited him, “Sounds like an easy enough job. Tell me, does this walking corpse have a name?”

“The Bishop of Aquilla.”  
Philippe froze at that, “I’m sorry sir, could you repeat that?”

Navarre turned to face him fully, eye boring into the younger man, “I’m going to kill the Bishop of Aquilla,” he lifted a gloved hand, resting it on Philippe’s shoulder, “and I’m going to need a guide,” he said, the corners of his lips flicking up in a kind almost-smile.

Philippe melted. Though his heart pounded at the thought of going back there after escaping only days ago, Philippe smiled back, “I wonder what my poor mother would think of me killing a Bishop?”

A grin broke through Navarre’s stoic façade. He pulled Philippe into a firm hug, complete with friendly pats on the back. Philippe’s heart was pounding even faster now. For all the looking Philippe had done over the past days, it was nothing compared to having the over man pressed up against him. Philippe blushed furiously at his own thoughts and firmly pushed the captain away. 

Navarre’s hands were still firmly clamped on Philippe’s shoulders. Now that the other man’s face was visible Philippe could truly see him smile. He just looked so sincerely happy. Philippe couldn’t remember the last time he had seen someone smile like that. He couldn’t even remember a time he himself had smiled like that. At that moment, Philippe’s heart skipped a beat. That moment was when he first knew that he would do anything the man asked of him. 

“I knew it,” Navarre was exclaiming, Philippe didn’t know whether to listen to his voice or to stare at the unabashed joy on his face before sending God a quick pray for giving him two working eyes and ears, “When I heard the warning bells of Aquila I knew the moment of my destiny has come. You will be my guiding angel.”

Philippe blushed a deep red, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at Navarre, “Me?” Philippe shrieked a little, “I’ll help you in any way I can… but I wouldn’t consider myself a ‘guiding angel’. When I escaped Aquila, it was a fluke, a stroke of luck.”

Navarre raised a brow, “Maybe luck had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, I talk to God all the time and he never mentioned any of this,” Philippe peaked up from the ground, unable to help himself from looking at Navarre, “didn’t mention you.”

“No?”

Navarre was looking at him like he always did, expressionless. Still, that one word chilled Philippe to the core. It was like he knew like he was confirming. But that couldn’t possibly be what. No Philippe had decided that thought was insane. But here was Navarre just saying it out in the open like that wasn’t the one thing that had haunted Philippe throughout his whole life.

“Um… I’m going to collect firewood!” Philippe declared suddenly. It was barely evening, but Navarre liked to sleep oddly early and Philippe would take any out he had right now. Navarre didn’t have time to respond before Philippe was past the tree line.

“Holy crap, holy crap,” Philippe muttered to himself, trying to put as much distance between Navarre and himself as possible. It was only when he found himself out of breath did Philippe stop.

Philippe wrapped his arms around the nearest tree, whether for comfort or because he was so out of breath he needed it to keep standing not even Philippe knew. All he knew was the rough bark against his cheek as he pressed his face against it, eyes shut tightly.

For a long time, Philippe didn’t do anything. Not even think, which was surprisingly hard for someone whose only real survival skill was his wit. Eventually, though Philippe found his voice, though it was harsh and low, “Lord, why do you keep putting me through these trials? Have I not proven myself time and time again?” 

Philippe was... emotional. He didn’t know if he was upset or happy or confused or even if he was just reading into things. Living day by day, as he had done in the past with little companionship since he was just a child, had not prepared him for anything like this.

Philippe had assumed that if, and that was a very small if, Navarre and the mysterious woman, Isabeau, were his soulmates that they had cast him aside. Philippe could understand this, if he thought about it logically, and he was used to being cast aside. He was content to remain in the shadows, following them along forever, never asking for more than to remain at their side.

“Why did he have to say something?” Philippe whined looking up accusatorily, “Why did you have to bind my soul to a man such as Etienne of Navarre?” Philippe finally composed himself, ready to go back to the said man if not ready to face the implications of what he said.

Philippe turned, running into a tree he didn’t know was there, “Wha-?” Philippe yelped as a hand covered his mouth. The tree wasn’t a tree at all. The red and silver of the Bishop’s men’s uniforms stood out stark against the dull greens and browns of the forest. Philippe was almost impressed about how they got the drop on him in such a getup.

The initial surprise was enough for the guard to shove him to his knees. Philippe was never much of a fighter, yet at that moment a sudden urge came over him. Like if he didn’t fight right now something terrible was going to happen. He lashed out, kicking and thrashing his arms at the guard like he was a feral animal. He knew that if he got captured right now, he would be leaving something behind. That even if he escaped there would be a chance that he wouldn’t get it back. 

The hand let go of his mouth to grab him by the hair. It was a moment, but Philippe took it anyway, screaming at the top of his lungs. Philippe prayed he hadn’t run too far, he prayed that Navarre hadn’t gone to sleep as the moon had already risen, he prayed that Isabeau was close enough that she could hear him and get help, but mostly he prayed that they stayed far away.

Isabeau wandered the forest, starving and unbearably lonely. As the sunset and the moon rose, Isabeau started her ‘day’ the same way she had for two years. Alone, naked, and hungry. 

Isabeau had changed into the clothes Navarre had set out for her and followed the flickering light she could see through the trees, assuming it was Navarre’s fire. Tonight, she would not look for the black wolf, instead, she found herself longing for the company of another person. Specifically, the man Navarre had somehow roped into their lives.

Isabeau neared the fire much sooner than expected, as instead of the bright fire she’d expected, the flames had died down to little more than embers. No one had been there since Navarre transformed, at least. She scowled, bending over to blow life back into the flames. 

Sitting back against a nearby tree, Isabeau settled herself into a short wait. She assumed that Philippe had just left the fire for a moment and would be back before she knew it. Though, as time flew by, Isabeau was growing less and less comfortable and more concerned. 

Though Isabeau had not known Philippe long, the fact that he had stayed by Navarre for so long already when he had no obligation to do so, especially when she seemed so skittish, told her that it would take something big for him to abandon them.

Immediately her thoughts went to Navarre. The man had been stoic and blunt at the best of times, and that was two years ago before his only companion was a hawk. He must have said or done something to drive the younger man off. Isabeau huffed and crossed her arms, it was times like these where she hated the curse the most, she couldn’t talk sense into Navarre’s thick skull.

Sighing, she stood from her spot by the fire. If Philippe was gone, there was no point sulking around here. She needed to find the wolf, then food.

The bushes rustled behind her. Too small to be a person or wolf, but just large enough to be a rabbit. Led by instinct, Isabeau chased after the noise, forgetting all about the wolf for that moment.

The rabbit was fast, but Isabeau was starving. She cornered the little thing, driving it to get tangled among brambles. Isabeau reached for it, almost feeling bad for the poor thing but she had done this too many times to start feeling guilty now. The rabbit cowered back-

A scream rang through the forest.

Isabeau snapped her hand back. Not thinking about her hungry or safety anymore, in fact not thinking at all, Isabeau ran towards the noise.

The forest was dense with trees and brambles, whose branches tugged at Isabeau’s clothes and tore her skin, but she couldn’t feel the pain at all. She didn’t know where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there, but her heart was pounding in her chest, telling her she needed to go right now.

At the edge of the forest, Isabeau saw what she was being led to. Philippe draped over the front of a horse. Atop the horse sat an Aquilian guard.

“No,” Isabeau gasped. There was nothing she could do, she knew that. She wasn’t strong enough to save him but the sight of him hurt, of Philippe being taken from them filled her with rage. Isabeau gripped a nearby tree, physically stopping herself from chasing them down.

The bushes behind her crashed as something ran through them. Without thinking she dove into the path of the wolf, guessing that the same instincts that had brought her here would bring him.

The wolf growled in displeasure at her, but there was no real aggression in it. Isabeau ran her hands through his matted fur sympathetically, “I know, love, but you can’t do anything in this state.”

The wolf huffed, not relaxing despite her calming strokes and words. Isabeau was pained to hold him back but she knew that it was her duty as the only one thinking rationally. 

Once Philippe and the Aquilian guard were out of sight, the wolf relaxed enough of her to let go. Isabeau forced herself to her feet. There wasn’t much she could do, but she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to try. 

Turning, Isabeau headed back to the campsite, the wolf following behind her obediently.

Philippe woke a short time later, draped over the front of a horse. The rhythmic trotting of the horse made the throbbing of his head much worse than Philippe would have imagined. His hair felt clumped and wet against his scale, but he couldn’t check if it was sweat or blood because of the tight rope binding his wrists behind his back.

The horse under him was brown, else Philippe would have had some hope that Navarre had rescued him while he was unconscious. Philippe kept still and silent. Thinking more rationally than before, Philippe knew he was no match for a guard, and even if he had somehow managed to escape, he couldn’t outrun a horse in the open hills they were riding through.

After a short while, the horse slowed into a walk. From the little that Philippe could see, they were approaching a camp. Philippe’s heart sped, his chances of escape were much less likely in a large group… and if it was who he thought it was then he’d already missed his best chance of escape.

The horse stopped and Philippe was shoved off it. The ground was soft, but Philippe’s ribs still ached from the horse and the impact hadn’t made them feel any better. Navarre’s shirt didn’t look any worse for wear, Philippe notice then mentally kicked himself for worrying about something like that at a time like that.

Philippe was pulled from the ground, a hand in his hair to force him to look anywhere but that the ground. 

“Well, well, long way from the sewers little rat,” The Marquet drawled, exiting his tent and approaching Philippe, “This time drinks are on me.”

Philippe’s brain was too busy racing through the possible ways to escape this encounter, leaving little room to come up with witty comebacks, so Philippe said nothing.

The Marquet grabbed the collar of his shirt, “Where’s Navarre?”

Philippe’s brain stopped, “Navarre? Who’s Navarre?” 

The Marquet tightened his grip and scowled. He might have been about to say something back the guard holding him chuckled. Philippe flinched at the noise, sending a quick prayer that this was leading where he thought.

“You seemed to know him awfully well not too long ago,” the Marquet looked from Philippe to the guard. Philippe flushed bright red, but still said nothing, “I think it takes more than a hit on the head to forget your soulmate.”

The Marquet looked to Philippe, with a grin one would only describe as predatory. Philippe tried to look away, but the hand in his hair stopped him.

“What a fortunate turn of events,” The Marquet let go of Philippe and addressed his men, “We wait here for Navarre to collect his little pet.”

Philippe cringed at the wording. Honestly, this turn of events was probably more likely to result in Philippe being able to escape, but his chest screamed for him to stop them.

“You’ve got it wrong, Navarre wouldn't come for me,” Philippe wasn’t even sure he was lying. Though Navarre had seemed to need his help to enter Aquilla.

A guard behind the Marquet scoffed, “Are you sure our man would risk his life for this little rat?”  
Philippe gave the man a pointed stare and an exacerbated look, like a mother would give a clueless child, “It’s not polite to assume things about someone when you’ve only just met them.”

The guard glared back, stepping forward like he was going to hit Philippe or at least get up in his face, but the Marquet raised a hand, silencing his man and whatever Philippe might have said in response.

“We keep Gaston here for now. If Navarre doesn’t show then I’m sure our prisoner will know where the man was heading.”

“I can assure you that I have no idea where the captain would be,” Philippe said too quickly. He knew he was getting sloppy with his lies. Even if Navarre hadn’t told him where they were heading, he would at least know what direction they were heading. Outright denying everything just made it seem like Philippe was loyal to Navarre, which was true but not something the men who’d been sent to kill said man needed to know.

“Then you’d better hope he knows where you are, little mouse,” the Marquet threatened lowly, grabbing Philippe’s (Navarre’s) shirt collar to pull him close, “because we have no use for uncooperative prisoners.”

Philippe jutted his chin out, saying nothing. The Marquet’s words sent a shock of fear through his system, but Philippe wasn’t going to back down. Not if it meant that Navarre would be hurt because of it.

The Marquet’s face scrunched up into an ugly expression. He whipped his head away from Philippe, turning to guards, “Tie him up, in the middle of the camp. Two guards watching him always. We don’t want him skittering away on us.”

Where the guards set him up, was not, in fact, in the middle of the camp. There was nowhere for them to securely tie him up there, so the two guards settled for a tree a little way off from the centre. Three lengths of rope later, Philippe was standing face to face with the guard who’d captured him and the guard who’d insulted him at his back watching his hands.

This was certainly the most guarded he’d ever been, but in an odd way, Philippe felt rather flattered. It was inconvenient to be sure, but the dungeons of Aquila had been rather inconvenient, and he’d escaped those with his life and limbs intact.

Rather than struggle, Philippe slid to the ground and closed his eyes. For some reason, despite the situation, Philippe felt just as safe here as he did with Navarre. The only thing he really felt was extreme exhaustion. Aside from the naps on Navarre’s horse and being knocked unconscienced, Philippe had barely slept at all since meeting the man and he was sure he wouldn’t be getting any sleep in the coming days either.

Just as he was starting to settle, a hard kick jarred him from his sleep. Philippe barely cracked an eye, giving the guard an unimpressed look, “Don’t you know it’s rude to disturb someone while they’re sleeping?”

The guard kicked him again, harder this time so Philippe had to bite back a gasp of pain, “Aren’t you going to try and escape, little rat?”

Phillipe looked up at him, lips twitched in a soft smile and blinking slowly, “Why would I do something like that?”

In a flash, the guard grabbed Philippe by the collar, hoisting him to his feet. Philippe smirked. In his experience, the dumb ones are always the quickest to anger. And when a dumb guard gets angry, that’s when they get messy.

The guard was shoving his face into Philippe’s space, which wasn’t ideal, but Philippe knew how to make the best of every situation, he just had to wait until the right moment. Until then, Philippe had to put up with the guard’s foul breath in his face as he tried to threaten him, “You little rat-“

Philippe scoffed, cutting the guard off, “It’s Mouse. Not rat. I’d thought you had experience with them since you smell enough like a sewer.”

That got a reaction. The guard’s hand swung out, backhanding Philippe enough for the smaller man’s head to whip back. Blood flooded his mouth. Philippe grimaced as the metallic taste mixed with saliva, spreading around his mouth, but he refused to spit it out just yet. He forgot that the dumbest ones always had to be the strongest. 

The hand knotted in Philippe’s shirt tightened, pulling him forward and slamming him back into the tree. The guard got up in Philippe’s face once again, “Not so cocky now are you, you little rat,” he sneered.

That was the moment Philippe was waiting for. The moment when the dumb brute thought he’d won, thought that Philippe had broken and would submit to him like a good little prisoner. Fatal mistake.

Philippe spat his mouth full of blood and spit in the face of the too close guard.

The man recoiled back in disgust, letting go of Philippe’s shirt and whipping frantically at the blood dripping into his eyes and mouth. Philippe didn’t even try to contain his laughter, waiting for the man to completely give into his anger. 

When the guard looked up, smeared blood framing eyes clouded with nothing but rage, Philippe instantly knew he’d won.

“Leave,” He ordered shortly to the other guard, who scurried away without another word. Philippe smirked. He was just making it easier and easier.

“Really?” Philippe cocked an eyebrow, “I’ve escaped from the dungeons of Aquila and you think one dull brute like yourself can guard me?”

Philippe knew he was taunting the man, but he honestly didn’t expect the right hook that smashed into his side. Philippe gasped as the breath was knocked out of him. Okay, dial it back. With the guard at his back gone, Philippe was free to make quick work of the shoddy knots tying his hands around the tree, but Philippe couldn’t grab him if the guard was an arm’s length away throwing punches.

“Okay,” Philippe coughed, head bent down towards his chest, “you’ve proved your strength. Truce?”

“I don’t think so,” a hand tangled itself in Philippe’s hair, pulling it back up to meet angry eyes. As soon as the guard let go to strike again, Philippe moved in. Philippe shoved his knee into the guard’s crotch, forcing him to lean forward in pain. That’s when Philippe’s head smashed forward into the man’s.

A second later the guard was on the ground. Philippe didn’t even wait to hear the man’s pained cry before he was dashing off into the grassy hills.

The sun was in the sky, but not high enough for it to be noon. Navarre was an early riser, surely, he’d notice Philippe was gone by now, right? Maybe he thought Philippe had abandoned him? Maybe Navarre had abandoned him. No. No, Navarre said he’d needed him. He’d come. He had to.

The pounding of hooves behind him signalled to Philippe that he wasn’t alone. He forced himself to run faster and faster until the only thing he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. Philippe knew that didn’t mean he was losing the horses, just that in a few moments he’d be completely out of stamina.

Please, please, please Lord, Philippe chanted in his head. He’d never wanted to live so much before. Not just survive but live. With Navarre and Isabeau. He didn’t even know them. That should have been reassurance Philippe told himself as he packed his things to take off in the middle of the night. You don’t even know them so what does it matter if you leave. But now the thought filled Philippe with regret. He didn’t even know them and they didn’t even know him.

Finally, the last of Philippe’s stamina had left him. He tripped over his own feet, sending himself sprawling into the dirt, grass staining his knees, and rocks ripping at his skin. Philippe suppressed an agonized sob, not just for the pain of being injured, but for the anguish of knowing that he’d die without even telling Isabeau and Navarre he was their soulmate.

“Lord,” Philippe pleaded, voice barely above a whisper, “Please. If you let me live through this… I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them the first chance I get.”

Philippe force himself to roll over, just in time to see a hawk soaring through the sky and a bolt flying threw the air like a gift sent straight from God, which Philippe whole-heartedly believed to be true.

Philippe barely knew what was happening. One moment Navarre was bursting into the fray, sword raised like a dark knight, and in the next, the hawk was falling from the sky as the Bishop’s men retreated and a wounded Navarre was cradling the hawk like a newborn infant. 

“Take her,” Navarre was gently, but insistently shoving the injured hawk into Philippe’s arms. Philippe held her awkwardly, trying to cradle her head without jarring her injury. 

Navarre called Goliath. “Follow this road. You’ll find a ruined castle. There’s a monk named Imperious. Give him the hawk. He will know what to do.” He grabbed Philippe’s arm, just rough enough to show his concern, but not enough to injure Philippe or the hawk, and forced him towards Goliath.

“I-I can’t! She’ll never make it a-and I… you, but” Philippe protested, digging his feet into the ground. Navarre couldn’t entrust the life of his precious hawk with Philippe. He couldn’t trust him that much, Philippe just couldn’t-refused to- understand.

Navarre squeezed his arm, turning his dark eyes on to Philippe’s, “You’re the only one I have. Please, Philippe.” His eyes shifted from Philippe’s to the hawk. They were so… sad. Philippe’s heart shattered. He clutched the hawk tighter, determined to save her. 

Against his better judgment, Philippe shifted the hawk to free one of his hands, then placing it onto the hand Navarre was clutching his arm with. The older man’s eyes shifted but up to his. They were still so so sad, but there was something else too.   
Philippe sighed, “Okay, I’ll go… as long as I can be sure you’ll follow,” Philippe refused to look away in embarrassment, his brush of death and his debt to God still fresh in his mind. 

“Of course, Philippe.”

That’s all it took for Philippe to nod to the other man and hoist himself on to the horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this instead of sleeping or studying for my Calculus exam so you're all welcome. In all honestly y'all are the best at comments and so encouraging. I'm so glad that more people than my sister actually enjoy this :)
> 
> Stay safe everyone! Stay home and read my fan fiction!
> 
> Side-note: Imma start actually replying to comments again lol sorry uni was really really busy


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the long wait again! BUT GUYS I got an editor! They are amazing! So thank you so much KnitChaos for finding all my stupid mistakes :)

Philippe did not know how to ride a horse. He'd hoped that Navarre would have noticed that by now, considering the time they had spent on the road together. However, Philippe's lack of knowledge did not stop him from gripping Goliath's reins tightly in one hand and the hawk in the other. 

Goliath, for his part, seemed to know where and what Philippe wanted him to do, even though the man had no idea how to express that in a way the horse would understand. He rode fast and true, following Navarre's quick directions better than Philippe would have done by himself. 

With Goliath leading the way, Philippe could only watch helplessly as the grassy hills morphed slowly into small rocky cliffs. 

Philippe felt powerless in a way he'd never felt before. Trapped in cells, chased by guards, or starving on the streets, Philippe knew what he was doing. But this... this was different. Seeing Navarre's face as he crumpled to the ground after his hawk. Hearing the bird's pathetic chirping as Goliath's galloping jostled her fresh wound. Feeling things for other people, not just himself, was something he hadn't done since before he was a naive child being led into a church by his mother. 

Philippe wrinkled his nose to try and stop the emotion that was welling up inside. This was not the time or place to be getting emotional. He kicked Goliath gently, urging the horse to go faster, but not knowing how to ask him. The horse huffed but to his credit, did speed up. From that moment on, Philippe had only one thing on his mind.

Philippe didn't know how long it took them to get to the castle. The ride felt like it was measured in the shallow breaths and gentle heartbeat of the hawk, time threatening to stop each time the little heart skipped a beat or her breath hitched in pain.

With the ruined castle in view, Philippe could feel Goliath slowing down. It took all he had not to urge the horse to sprint right through the gates until they found this Imperious.

As if sensing his anxiety, the hawk nuzzled her head into Philippe's hand, cooing softly. Philippe gazed down at her, softly stroking his thumb through her blood-matted feathers, "Don't worry," he whispered, just as soft as her coo a moment before, "everything will be alright."

Goliath stopped just in front of the broken gates. Even though it would have been easy to enter, Philippe stopped himself. Not only was it rude, and Philippe liked to pride himself on being a polite individual (when it suited him) but also because he had no idea who this Imperious was. If he was anything like Navarre, Philippe was more than certain he would not be welcome to enter uninvited. 

"Hello!" Philippe called to the seemingly empty castle. When there was no answer he called twice more, almost feeling foolish but refusing to give up and let the hawk die. 

There was a scuffling from the battlement. Pieces of the crumbled parapet threatened to shower the hawk, but Philippe covered her just in time. 

Philippe glared up the wall, "Hello?" he called, "For peace sake, hello!"

A man with wispy white hair and stubble a few days over-grown appeared above. His clothes were dishevelled and tattered, "What do you want down there?" he called to Philippe. He seemed irritable that someone had come calling. Not at all what Philippe had expected.

Philippe tucked the hawk closer to his side. Was this really the man Navarre trusted with his hawk's life? He had definitely been expecting an old man, but when Navarre had said 'monk'. Philippe had expected a bald man with nice neat robes, not an old nut who looked better suited for a tavern floor than a monastery. Still, he was their only hope of saving the hawk.

It took Philippe longer than he expected to get the man to understand the situation and a surprisingly brief amount of time for the man to let him into the castle after he explained. 

The man guided Philippe to a bed, covered in thick furs. As he laid the hawk down (gently, gently, the man called behind him, but Philippe paid him little attention) he stroked her head, trying to soothe her pained cooing.

A hand landed on Philippe's shoulder, "Leave us."

Philippe barely glanced over his shoulder, favouring instead to look in the eyes of the injured hawk. She looked so scared and familiar. Philippe's heart ached to stay next to her.

"Can I help?" Philippe asked the man, not turning his gaze.

The hand on his shoulder tightened and pulled him back, away from the hawk, "Get out, boy."

Philippe stumbled as he caught his footing. The voice was sudden and gruff. Maybe that was the reason Philippe obeyed it in a daze, leaving the room in favour of leaning against the battlement as the sun dipped below the horizon. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

The door behind him rattled. Without thinking Philippe hid behind the corner, waiting for Imperious to wander out of sight before grabbing the large lock he fixed to the door.

Honestly, Philippe was a little insulted the man thought one lock was enough to stop him, but then again had he known it would have been quite a bit harder to see the hawk.

Only, when Philippe unlocked and unbolted the door the hawk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the lady from the forest lay in her place. Philippe found himself frozen in shock, only coming back to reality when the lady spoke, her voice like a bell.

"Navarre, is he—?" her voice full of grief, eyes refusing to meet his.

Philippe crossed the room and knelt by her side, though he didn't move to touch her, afraid he would overstep boundaries or hurt her.

"He's fine," he reassured, "he's just fine, my lady."

She let out a shaky breath, then turned her face so her eyes met his. Her lips were curved into a gentle smile, yet she didn't look happy. 

"There was a terrible battle," Philippe continued on, hoping that news of Navarre might comfort her, "Navarre fought like a lion."

That did get her to smile, a real one accompanied by an amused huff. Philippe felt his own lips twitching up in return to her smile. 

"And you?"

"Me?"

Isabeau frowned slightly, bringing her hand to cup Philippe's face. Her arm shook with effort; the simple gesture made it difficult from the amount of blood loss and pain the lady had experienced. The movement exposed her forearm, showing black cursive writing there, illaligable to Philippe’s illiterate eyes . Philippe desperately wanted to take hold of her other arm and check the wrist there, but he restrained himself. Instead, Without even thinking about it, Philippe reached his own hand to hers, helping her hold it against his cheek. Isabeau smiled again at the gesture, "Yes, you."

Philippe flushed bright red at her concern, "Oh, I stayed out of the way," he laughed, dropping his hand and looking away bashfully, "Quite the damsel in distress if I do say so myself."

Isabeau laughed, her hand falling from Philippe's face to cover his hand on the bed. Philippe flushed even brighter, though he couldn't help but smile at her laughter. "Fortunately for you, Navarre quite likes damsels in distress," she squeezed his hand in hers, "though I'm sure you're more than you seem."

Philippe dared a glance up, eyes instantly meeting Isabeau's deep blue ones. They were full of mirth, affection, and if Philippe dared to hope, framed with a softness Philippe had never seen directed at him before.

"Perhaps, my lady." Philippe wanted to stay in the moment forever, but he didn't know when Imperious would be back and there were some things he needed to know before the old man threw him out again, "About the battle..."

Isabeau drew a sharp breath, then winced at the resulting pain, "Yes?"

"The hawk... the hawk was struck." Isabeau said nothing, so Philippe pressed on, "But, you already knew that."

"Yes."

Philippe was almost shocked by the answer. He had half-hoped she would call his speculations crazy and laugh off his concerns. But she hadn't. Isabeau had turned away from him, confirmed Philippe's wild guess, and shocked his system in one word, spoken so softly Philippe could barely hear it.

Philippe dropped her hand and leaned back from the bed, "Are you flesh? or are you spirit?" he asked, voice barely above the sound of a breath.

"I am sorrow."

Isabeau's eyes never left the ceiling and her face never met Philippe's, but the pure anguish that dripped from those words told Philippe all he needed to know. Never in his life had he so desperately wanted to reach out and comfort someone, wanted to fix something so bad... but he was so confused, and overwhelmed. He wanted to stay, but instead, he did what he had always done.

Philippe backed away from the bed and towards the door, eyes never leaving the bed-ridden figure. As his back hit the door, it opened. Philippe stumbled before arms surrounded him, shoving him out the door and yelling orders that Philippe didn't hear.  
_____________________________________________________________________________

Sometime later, Philippe found himself numbly collecting wood for a fire, an action that had become strangely comforting over the past days. For the first time, he didn't allow thoughts to cloud his mind, nor did he speak a word to the god he had come to believe in but not trust. He simply collected the wood and built a roaring fire. One large enough to fill the sudden coldness that was freezing him. 

He stared at the flames, chin leaning on clasped hands. He did all he could to block any thoughts of soul mates, curses, people turning into animals and animals turning into people.

Philippe curled in on himself. He pressed his hand against his face and in frustration, let out a groan crossed with a yell. Philippe had always prided his quick wit, but now it seemed to be working against him, for every thought he blocked, ten more seemed to bang at the walls he put up.

Why? Just why? Why did Philippe deserve this? Why did he get wrapped up in this... situation. He didn't even know the full story. He didn't know what to do, how to help, but he still didn't want to leave.

"Why? Why why why why?" Philippe muttered over and over again. Panic filled him, a worry stemming from Isabeau’s injury, his uncertain future, the sheer confusion of what this all meant. Before he knew it, Philippe was shaking. 

He wasn't crying, nor did he feel like it. He was closer to throwing up. So when a low whimper broke through the crackling of the fire, Philippe whipped his head up. 

The black wolf was standing on the other side of the fire, ears flattened and tail hanging low and wagging slowly. He looked sad or almost scared as he approached Philippe slowly. He was obviously asking for permission to sit with Philippe. 

Philippe beckoned to the wolf with a simple hand wave. The wolf trotted over, jumping up to sit beside him. He lay his large head in Philippe's lap, whimpering softly until the man dragged his fingers through his rough coat.

"You're not going to attack me again are you?" Philippe asked, remembering what had happened the last time. 

The wolf whimpered again, probably in an apology. Philippe laughed and stroked his head to show there were no hard feelings.

"You know, you're awfully smart for a wolf. I've never seen a wolf approach a human willingly before," Philippe mused, mostly to fill the silence, "And you even followed us all the way here," Philippe turned his gaze to the wolf who was looking up at him, seemingly listening to his every word. Philippe's heart stopped. Those eyes… they seemed to know him… know more than a wolf should.

"You—"

A scream of pain split through the courtyard. It came from the tower that housed Isabeau, so Philippe assumed Imperious had just removed the arrow. 

The wolf followed his gaze, rising from Philippe's lap to let out a low, mournful howl at the tower. Philippe's heart broke at the sound. He stroked the wolf's coat, desperately trying to calm him. The wolf eventually quieted and rested his head back on Philippe's lap, though his eyes were fixed on Isabeau's tower.

"You're him, aren't you?" The wolf raised his eyes to look at Philippe, huffing once before his eyes darted back to the tower. Philippe sighed, "Someway, somehow, it's you," Philippe said, more to himself than to his canine companion. 

"You should forget you know that. Drink," a bottle was shoved towards Philippe. Philippe took the bottle as the old priest, Imperious, walked around the fire to sit across from the thief. He eyed the wolf laying in Philippe's lap wearily. 

Philippe gazed down at the dark liquid that swirled in the bottle. Getting drunk would surely calm the thoughts racing in his mind, yet that was only a temporary solution to his problems. Besides, Philippe doubted any amount of alcohol would make him forget. He shook his head, handing the bottle back to Imperious, "You were drunk an hour ago, yet you still remember."

"What do they call you, boy?"

"Philippe Gaston."

There was a silence. A pause where the only sound was the wolf's panting, and the fire crackling. Philippe idly stroked the wolf's fur as Imperious drank from the bottle.

Without prompt, Imperious began telling the tale of Lady Isabeau D'Anjou's life, and how she came to live in Aquila after the death of her father. How even the Bishop was overcome by her beauty, falling into a mad obsession with the young woman. Yet, she had already lost her heart to her soul mate, the captain of the guard, Etienne Navarre. Until they were betrayed by a drunk fool of a priest who revealed their love to the Bishop.

Imperious’ voice tapered off as if he couldn't bring himself to finish the story, staring into the fire contemplating his past sins. Before Philippe could insist the priest continue, the wolf let out a sharp bark. The priest startled and his gaze was caught by the amber eyes of the wolf.

"The Bishop swore that if he could not have her, no man would. The lovers fled from the city, but the Bishop had already called on the powers of hell to damn the lovers with the curse you've seen.

"By day, Isabeau is the beautiful hawk you brought to me. And by night, as you already suspect, Navarre is the great black wolf resting on your lap. They live half-lives, one as poor creatures with no memory of their human lives, acting only on instinct, and the other as wandering humans, never able to touch their love in the flesh." Imperious finished quickly, then downed the entire bottle.

The wolf let out a low whimper as he nuzzled his head into Philippe's stomach. Philippe patted his head. "Father," Philippe said suddenly, causing the old man to flinch, "you say the two can not remember their human sides, yet Navarre acts like a loyal hound around myself and the Lady, and the hawk follows my commands as easily as she does Navarre's. How are they acting on instinct by protecting me, when any wild animal would protect themselves?"

Imperious stared at him, one eyebrow quirked as if to say Philippe should know the answer by now. When Philippe's face didn't change from the confused look Imperious laughed, loud and arrogant.

"Philippe, my boy, is it not an instinct to protect the holder of your soul?"

Philippe flushed bright red, "I'm not—how—but. You've got it wrong!" 

Imperious rolled his eyes. He stood and placed a hand on Philippe's shoulder, "God chose you to be born into a tragic story, Philippe Gaston. And now, whether you like it or not, you are lost in it, with the rest of us."

With that, the old man left Philippe with a wolf, a dying fire, and much more to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me guys! I'm trying to write more, but you know, lockdown got me down :( (AKA tell me nice things in the comments)
> 
> Stay safe :)


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